


Worship the Devil

by Shakespeares_Girl



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF, Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: BDSM, Blasphemy, Flogging, M/M, Masochism, Punishment, Religious Content, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakespeares_Girl/pseuds/Shakespeares_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy doesn't believe in God or the Devil.  Adam decides to convince him he's wrong.  Adam is Satan, and there's flogging and sacrificial imagery and blasphemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship the Devil

_He stretches, languid, lazy, and enjoys the warmth from all the fires of hell. His last plaything has escaped, or been consumed, or kidnapped by the hordes of demons he commands. It doesn't matter, he was finished with that one, anyway._

_Rising, he considers the neat lines of clothing inside his closet. Maybe it's time to hit the surface again. He can try that new club, Hades, and do the whole irony thing for a while. Smiling, he picks out a black suit and prepares to go topside._

* * *

Tommy is in the middle of one of his rambling, slightly incoherent rants about how atheism is the way to go, and how can you prove there's a god or a devil anyway. He's just gotten to the part where the devil is especially stupid, because why would an all-powerful god create someone to be his antithesis when he could go completely uncontested in the first place, when someone's fingers hook under his chin and forcibly turn his head away from the tipsy, nodding blonde girl on the bar stool next to him.

For a frightening instant, Tommy sees all the fires of hell burning in the stranger's eyes, but then his eyes frost over into an icy grey-blue, and Tommy feels a chill run up his spine. “You don't believe?” the stranger asks.

“Nah, man,” Tommy shakes his head. “It's like, why believe in something that's completely un-provable? Like, I can choose to base my life off something that's more than likely a lie made up by followers of a prophet, or I can live my life the way I want to, and maybe have some fun while I'm at it.”

“Or,” the stranger points out, “you can worship the other side.”

“What, Satanism? But Satan's only a made-up foil for the mythical all-powerful being calling itself god,” Tommy laughs. “Besides, I don't _want_ to believe. I don't want to base decisions and choices and actions on a made-up set of morals that I don't even agree with in the first place.”

“You don't want to believe?” the stranger repeats. Then he smiles, and it's not a nice smile, not at all. “I could _make_ you believe, Tommy Joe. What would you do then?”

Tommy frowns. “How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things,” the stranger smiles wider, too-wide and toothy. “But that's not important. My name is Adam, and I can turn you into the most devout worshiper at my throne . . . you'd never want to profess atheism again.”

“I doubt that,” Tommy scoffs, sizing the guy up. “You may be good, but I doubt you could force me to believe in god. Or that _you're_ god.”

“Oh, believe me, Tommy Joe, I could do both of those things,” the stranger—Adam—purrs. “But I'm not God, and he doesn't like it when I pretend to be.” Adam considers for a moment, hard fingers pushing Tommy's face this way and that, sliding down to grip his neck. “Would you like me to try, Tommy Joe? Would you like me to make you into my acolyte?”

It's all Tommy can do to blink owlishly at Adam and wonder, “If you're not god, who are you?”

“I'm the devil, of course.”

* * *

Adam half expects some sort of “where's your pitchfork” joke to come out of Tommy's mouth, but he just gapes for a second, then starts laughing.

“You had me going there,” he huffs, breath short from the pressure of Adam's fingers. Adam doesn't let go, even though he should. “Okay, sure, why not. Make me believe.”

“Any time you wish for me to stop, you need only speak my name—my proper name, mind you—and I will do as you ask,” Adam tells him, then he wraps his arm around Tommy's waist and melts them back down into the Underworld.

Tommy gapes at him. “I—how did you—are you an illusionist? Or a hypnotist? That was cool. Do something else amazing.”

Adam smirks. “As you wish.” He snaps his fingers and they instantly appear in his bedroom, the fun one with the hooks and the d-rings and the closet filled with toys instead of clothes. “Now, what shall we try first? Are you going to be good for me and hold still, or shall we start with restraints?”

“I—what? Restraints?”

“As you wish,” Adam shrugs, snaps, and cuffs wrap themselves around Tommy's wrists and ankles, and a pretty leather collar curves around his neck. “I do love the way you look in leather.”

Tommy frowns down at his hands. “I could have sworn,” he whispers to himself, “I could have sworn . . .”

“So, then,” Adam continues, momentarily ignoring Tommy's confusion, “how would you like to worship me first?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow at that, his confusion over the cuffs and collar momentarily forgotten. “How would you _like_ me to worship you?” he asks, making it sound exactly like the come-on he thinks it is.

“Let's start with begging me for mercy,” Adam decides.

* * *

Tommy finds himself stretched out on an altar, back bowed, arms pulled over his head so his body stretches uncomfortably. He shivers, and realizes he's naked. _How does Adam keep doing that?_ he wonders. It doesn't matter, though because behind him, Adam is holding what looks like a long-tailed flogger, and suddenly, there's a little twist of fear in Tommy's stomach, a feeling of sudden uncertainty.

“Twenty strikes with my lovely little toy, here, and then we'll move on to the more pleasant sort of worship, I think,” Adam murmurs behind him.

The first strike is a revelation in more ways than one. First off, it hurts. Like, seriously hurts. But it also feels _good_. Beyond good, it feels amazing, and Tommy—he's not sure he want's it to stop. By the time they reach thirteen, though, Tommy's just about ready to beg. “A-Adam,” he stammers. “Don't--”

Adam just keeps going, though, ignoring Tommy. He might even be humming, but Tommy can't hear over the rush of blood in his own ears.

“Please,” Tommy finally gasps, and Adam stops—he'd reached twenty anyway—and snaps his fingers, and Tommy's suddenly on his back on the altar, pressing cold stone against fresh welts and he screams. “Holy Christ,” he pants when he gets his breath back. “Adam!”

“Aw,” Adam pouts. “That's no fun, now I have to mete out penance for speaking The Name in the Underworlds.”

Tommy blinks. “Um.”

* * *

Adam smiles to himself as Tommy—stretched face down over the altar—begs for mercy. “Please, please!” he sobs. “I don't—I can't—I need—Adam, please!”

“You know how to make it stop, baby,” Adam laughs, cracking all nine tails of the flogger again. “Just say my name.”

Neither of them know if it's seconds or hours or days before Tommy shouts out, “Satan! Please, Lucifer, the Devil, whatever you like, I believe!”

Adam drops his cat o' nine and steps up behind Tommy, uses his blood to ease the way as he pushes inside him, snapping his fingers so Tommy's slick and tight and shakes with pleasure when Adam shoves in to the hilt. Adam has his way, and it's rough, and brutal, and oddly tender, with Tommy pushing back and gasping and begging for Adam to please, please let him.

Later, when he's changed the bed back into a bed and not an altar, and cleaned up the worst of Tommy's wounds with a snap of his fingers, and gotten them settled, Tommy's head resting on Adam's shoulder, Adam sighs. “You know,” he says softly. “I could take you back to your home now, if you like. Or . . .”

“Or?” Tommy asks, voice hoarse, nearly wrecked from the screaming earlier.

“Or, you can stay here, with me, be my acolyte and my lover, let me give you all the pleasure and pain I can summon,” Adam sighs again.

“Why are you letting me chose?” Tommy asks. “I mean, you could just keep me, and not give me a choice.”

“I'm tired of keeping playthings against their will. I want—I want someone who isn't a Persephone,” Adam pouts.

“Jeez, I never thought I'd see Satan pouting,” Tommy teases.

Adam laughs. “So. I guess, I'll take you back, then. The club?”

“Nah,” Tommy shrugs with his whole body, and burrows into Adam's side. “It's nice and warm down here, and I like the company. And things weren't going so hot for me up there, anyway.”

* * *

_Three months later . . ._

Adam reaches into his closet and pulls out a ball gag. Tommy hates not being able to make sounds, so when Adam feels like torturing him—just a little—he takes out the gags and plays with Tommy this way. He hefts the gag in his hands, and smiles, then turns to Tommy and carefully buckles it on. Careful fingers brush down Tommy's cheek when he's finished, tracing the line of the gag, then Tommy's plush lower lip where it stretches to accommodate the large rubber ball.

“So pretty,” Adam sighs. Tommy moans around the gag, and Adam sighs again and tugs at the straps that wrap around Tommy's head. “I hope you don't mind, baby,” he murmurs into Tommy's ear. “But I'm going to keep you for a long, long time.”


End file.
